Chapter 151
Chapter 151
"My life is none of your business! Who the hell do you think you are, barging into my life?" Clio screamed at him, her voice shrill and cutting. "Get out! Stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong!"
Dean stumbled back two steps from the shove.
He stared at Clio's face, twisted with rage, and felt his heart shredding like it was caught in a meat grinder.
She told him to get out.
She'd thrown away every last shred of dignity—for Aaron.
Dean's fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.
He didn't spare Aaron another glance. He turned and stormed out of the hotel room.
Cold wind hit his face. His reason slowly returned, but the hatred inside him spread like wildfire through dry brush.
Clio wasn't always like this. She used to be so kind. So gentle.
This was all Hestia's fault.
If Hestia hadn't pushed her into a corner at every turn, if she hadn't wielded William's power like a weapon to destroy Clio's life, Clio would never have become this desperate, pathetic shell of herself—constantly terrified of losing everything, groveling just to survive.
Hestia had ruined Clio's life.
Dean yanked open the car door and slammed his foot on the gas. The car tore toward the ballet studio downtown.
He was going to make Hestia answer for everything. That woman on her throne was going to pay.
---
Downtown. The ballet company studio.
The hallway was quiet in the afternoon stillness.
Dean walked in with a hard-set jaw, slipping past the front desk unnoticed, heading straight for the private rehearsal room at the far end.
His mind churned with exactly how he'd confront Hestia—how he'd rip that mask of hers clean off.
He reached the rehearsal room door and was about to push it open when his hand froze mid-air.
Through the glass panel in the door, he saw what was inside.
The overhead lights were off. Only a few slanting rays of afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Hestia wore an all-black leotard, her back to the door, practicing a solo.
No music. Just the faint whisper of pointe shoes brushing against the hardwood floor.
She rose onto her toes, her body lifting effortlessly into the air, suspended in a flawless hang before landing with absolute control. Then, without pause, she launched into a seamless sequence of thirty-two fouettés.
Every pause between movements, every line of tension in her back muscles, even the arc of her arms as they rose—all of it radiated a familiarity carved so deep it felt etched into bone.
Dean's breath stopped.
His brain went blank, like a sledgehammer had struck it dead center.
Back in college, he'd once stood outside an empty rehearsal room and caught a glimpse of a girl dancing—just her silhouette, just her back.
That fleeting moment had been enough. He'd fallen instantly.
Later, Clio told him she was the one who'd been dancing that day. He believed her. From that moment on, he devoted himself to her completely—content to be nothing more than the shadow behind her.
But now, watching Hestia's back through the glass, his heart hammered violently against his ribs.
The way she engaged her muscles. The angle of her turns. Even that untouchable, solitary quality that seemed to radiate from her soul—it was identical to the silhouette that had haunted his dreams for years.
Not just similar.
Identical.
It was Hestia. The girl from that day—it was Hestia.
Dean stood frozen outside the glass, his eyes glazed and unfocused.
Everything he'd believed in for years—every conviction, every certainty—crumbled to dust in a single moment.
He stood there like a puppet with its strings cut, staring at that silhouette, unable to even blink.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"
A sharp female voice rang out in the hallway, snapping Dean from his trance.
Donna was walking toward him carrying two cups of coffee.
She spotted the tall man immediately—lurking outside the rehearsal room door, face pressed toward the glass, staring inside with an expression that was anything but normal.
Donna's brow furrowed. She set the coffees down on a nearby ledge and marched straight over.
"What are you staring at, you creep!"
She didn't hesitate. She swung her canvas tote bag and brought it crashing down on Dean's head and shoulders.
"Peeping Tom! Pervert! Do you even know where you are? How dare you come in here and pull this!"
Dean never saw it coming. The blows drove him backward. Something hard inside the bag caught him across the face, and pain flared hot.
"Stop! I'm not—" Dean tried to explain, but his brain was still short-circuiting. He couldn't even finish a sentence.
"Not what? I watched you standing here gawking for ages!" Donna wasn't about to listen. She kept swinging and kicked at his shins for good measure. "Security! Security, get over here! There's a creep out here!"
The rehearsal room door swung open from inside.
Hestia stood in the doorway. She wore her all-black leotard, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, her breathing perfectly even.
Her gaze passed over Donna—still brandishing the canvas bag—and landed on the disheveled face behind her.
Dean.
"Stop." Hestia's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of an absolute command.
Donna froze mid-swing, panting. She lowered the bag and shot Dean a venomous glare. "Hestia, this pervert was plastered against the door spying on you while you danced! I'm calling security to throw him out right now!"
Dean's hair was a mess. A red welt from a zipper cut traced across his cheekbone.
He straightened up, his eyes locked on Hestia.
The silhouette he'd seen through the glass was still seared into his mind, impossible to shake.
Too similar.
The way she generated power, the arc of her jumps, even that weightless control on the landing—all of it matched the girl who'd made him fall in love at first sight, detail for detail.
But he shoved the thought down almost as quickly as it surfaced.
Impossible.
Clio had confirmed it herself. That girl was her.
Hestia was nothing more than a vicious woman who hid behind power and privilege. There was no way she could be the one who'd haunted his dreams.
Dean drew a deep breath and forced the doubt from his mind.
He thought of what he'd seen hours ago—Clio in that budget hotel, half-dressed and sobbing—and the fury surged back, drowning out everything else.
"Hestia." He stepped forward, hostility and anger blazing undisguised in his eyes. "Happy now?"
Hestia looked at him with the detached indifference of someone regarding a stranger.
She said nothing. She waited.
"You've already driven Clio to rock bottom. Why won't you stop?" Dean's jaw was clenched so tight the muscles twitched. His voice dripped with accusation. "You deliberately leaked those photos online so the whole internet could tear her apart. You seduced Aaron on purpose, destroyed their relationship, and now he's abandoned her completely. How can you be this heartless?"
Hestia listened to every word. She didn't even feel the urge to be angry. The only thing she felt was how utterly absurd it all was.
"I seduced Aaron?" Her tone was feather-light, as if remarking on a bad joke. "Dean, if you're not using your brain, consider donating it to someone who will. Clio took those photos herself. She sent them to me of her own free will—couldn't wait to show me she'd crawled into her ex-husband's bed. All I did was honor her desire to share and help make it public."